


Aftermath

by MistressKat



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: BDSM, Bandom - Freeform, M/M, Plot What Plot, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"So what is it, Brendon? You were bored? Not enough under-aged girls throwing themselves at you, so you thought you'd add the boys to the mix?" The question is derisive but there's an edge to it, like Ryan really thinks Brendon might be looking for a hook-up like he told the crowd.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> A possible aftermath of the 08 Manchester gig. The story was written originally for the [Bandom Gets Spanked meme](http://kat-lair.livejournal.com/113518.html), but has now been betaed by the gorgeous [Zeitheist](http://zeitheist.livejournal.com/) and therefore much improved. Feedback, including concrit, is always welcome.

Ryan rounds on him the moment they get backstage, his fists clenched and face like a storm cloud. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

Brendon doesn’t back away. He spreads his arms, effectively blocking the way for Spencer and Jon who were walking behind him. The whole band comes to a standstill in the middle of the grimy, narrow corridor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ryan. That was an awesome show. What’s your problem?”

“My problem? _My problem?_” Ryan’s mad, nothing fake about it, and the change is amazing. Gone is the passive, doll-like façade that he has been sporting for most of the tour; unreadable, uninterested, un-fucking-caring.

Inside, Brendon is crowing with victory. It feels like the first time in weeks Ryan is really seeing him. He affects an expression of nonchalance, shrugging casually. “Yeah, Ryan. I don’t understand what’s so—”

“You don’t understand how coming out in front of a several hundred screaming teenagers is maybe something that should have been discussed with the rest of the band beforehand? For fuck’s sake, you know that’s going to be all over the internet within an hour!”

“Sooner, I think,” Jon pipes out from behind Brendon. “Web-enabled cells.” He sounds amused.

Ryan glares. “Stay out of this Jon, you’re already done enough damage tonight, playing straight into—”

“That’s enough.” Spencer’s voice snaps like a whip. He pushes past Brendon, dragging Jon with him by the wrist. “What Brendon did was perhaps a bit… inadvisable, but you have no business taking it out on Jon. He’s got nothing to do with it. This is between you and Brendon, and you know it.”

Ryan exhales sharply, his eyes cutting to Jon in a quick apology.

Spencer nods curtly. “We’re going to clean up. The car to the hotel leaves in an hour.”

Ryan steps aside, letting Spencer and Jon past, but slapping his palm against the wall when Brendon tries to follow.

“You act stupidly at times, but you’re not _actually_ stupid.” Ryan’s expression shifts from fury to something more… calculating. The anger is still there too, simmering just under the surface.

He takes a step closer and _now_ Brendon backs away, though it’s still mostly for show. He can feel his body thrumming, his breath coming faster just from having Ryan’s whole focus on him. This is what he wants. This is what he’s been pushing for.

“So what is it, Brendon? You were bored? Not enough under-aged girls throwing themselves at you, so you thought you’d add the boys to the mix?” The question is derisive but there’s an edge to it, like Ryan really thinks Brendon might be looking for a hook-up like he told the crowd.

Brendon feels an ugly spike of satisfaction at making Ryan jealous. It’s underhanded and petty, but he needs Ryan to notice him, to notice other people noticing him, and if this is what it takes, then Brendon is not above doing it. He grins. “Hey you know what they say; all publicity is good publicity.”

Ryan can move fast when he wants to. Brendon finds himself against the wall, shoulder blades curving against the painted concrete.

“Are you _trying_ to piss me off, Brendon? Because it’s working.” He leans closer, their chests pressing together painfully. “Is _that_ what this is about? You want my attention?”

Brendon’s fingers scrabble uselessly over Ryan’s shoulders, his mouth slack and too empty. _Yes_, he thinks, back arching off the wall, _yes_.

“You got it.”

Ryan pulls him along the corridor, his grip around Brendon’s bicep iron hard and bruising. The first two doors are locked, but the third opens easily and Ryan shoves him inside, catching the light switch and shutting the door behind them.

They’re in a dressing room. Not theirs, but a smaller, abandoned one; cardboard boxes piled in the corner, a thin layer of dust covering every surface.

Brendon walks backwards until he’s in the middle of the room, keeping his eyes on Ryan’s. This is where it gets good. He has Ryan’s attention and he knows how to keep it, knows what to do now that he has Ryan exactly where he wants him.

“I’m sorry, Ryan.” Brendon drops to his knees gracefully, making sure his head is lowered just right. “I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.” He shuffles forward, still on his knees, leaving uneven tracks on the dirty floor.

“Please, Ryan. I’m so sorry.” But he’s not. Not really. Not when he can hear Ryan inhale, loud and stuttering, and it’s good, so good to be able to make him do that, to make him give Brendon what he needs.

Brendon is close enough to smell him now; hotel soap and sweat. He nuzzles the front of Ryan’s trousers, shameless, the hot line of Ryan’s arousal pressing hard against Brendon’s cheek, and god, _god_, he needs this so much, needs Ryan to hold him down, push his cock inside Brendon’s mouth until he’s raw from it.

Brendon rocks forward, hands snaking up to cup the backs of Ryan’s thighs. He’s hard, can feel himself leaking, damp and desperate inside his own jeans, and when Ryan’s hands drop down to his belt Brendon is whining, mouth already flooding with saliva.

But Ryan isn’t reaching for his buckle. Instead, he grabs Brendon’s face, forcing him to look up, long fingers digging into his jaw. “You manipulative little bitch!”

Ryan’s thumb pushes in, pinning Brendon’s tongue down until he can barely breathe. “You think you can push me into sex? You think you _need to?_”

Brendon feels his eyes widen. If Ryan was angry before, he’s livid now, and for the first time ever Brendon is not sure what’s going to happen. For the first time ever, he’s _scared_.

It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

“Not only that, but to do it in public. To drag the band into it. All because you wanted my attention? Because you wanted to get your rocks off?” Ryan pushes more fingers into Brendon’s mouth, making him gag, eyes stinging with tears.

“You think you can play me like that, Brendon? You’re wrong.” Ryan pulls his hand out, twisting it in Brendon’s hair instead and yanking him to his feet.

It hurts like a sonofabitch and Brendon cries out, half-blind and stumbling. Ryan tilts Brendon’s head up and for a moment he thinks Ryan is going to kiss him, but he just looks at him for long, silent seconds. Brendon wants to avert his gaze, but finds himself unable to move; trapped by the dark, unwavering heat of Ryan’s eyes.

“You’re not even sorry, are you?” Ryan finally asks. His voice is low, breath ghosting over Brendon’s upturned face.

Brendon doesn’t know what to say. What had been a harmless game suddenly feels wrong. He lied to Ryan, he _lied_, and the shame of it burns hot and acidic in his gut.

“You will be,” Ryan says and then Brendon is being walked backwards across the room, turned around and thrown over the rickety dressing table, the mirror shuddering from the impact.

It doesn’t even occur to him to resist. The wood under his cheek is rough, the dust clinging to his sweaty skin, the insides of his lips. Ryan’s hands are precise and methodical as he unbuckles Brendon’s belt, pulling down his jeans and underwear, leaving them bunched around his knees.

Ryan pulls Brendon’s head up until he can see himself in the mirror; the long stretch of his neck, eyes wide and black, his mouth an obscene red slit. He looks desperate. Needy. He looks like—

“A slut,” Ryan says. “You look like a slut.” He pulls Brendon flush against him.

The coarse fabric of clothes against his bare skin makes Brendon moan and writhe. Ryan runs his hand over Brendon’s mouth, back and forth, and Brendon licks the palm on instinct.

“Count them out,” Ryan says and Brendon has maybe two seconds to think _count what out_, before Ryan’s hand comes down hard on his ass, the sound more shocking than the sensation.

Brendon jerks, but there’s nowhere to go. Ryan’s other hand is gripping the back of Brendon’s neck, holding him down.

“I said: _Count. Them. Out_,” Ryan grits from between clenched teeth, his face twisted with love and hurt and anger, all mixed up and terribly beautiful.

“_One_,” Brendon gasps. “_Two_.”

By the fifth he’s choking the words out, fingers fumbling for purchase as each slap pushes him further forward. “_Six, seven, eight_,” come fast and ruthless, giving Brendon no chance to even draw breath in between.

Number twelve lands across his right thigh, Ryan’s fingers catching the delicate skin on the inside, and Brendon’s spine curves from the pain.

“Tell me,” Ryan demands, hitting him again on the same place.

“_Twelve, thirteen_, please, _please_ Ryan, I’m sorry.” His skin is on fire, and when Ryan rubs hands over his ass, kneading the flesh, Brendon’s entire body feels like he’s being scalded.

By the twentieth Brendon can barely make out the separate slaps, everything melting together into one throbbing hurt that crashes over him in waves, salty and vast like the ocean. By the thirty-sixth he realises he’s crying.

Ryan switches hands somewhere in between, keeping up a steady litany of _slut_ and _don’t you ever again_ and _mine_. Brendon doesn’t lose the count, but he does lose all sense of time and space, floating in the sensation, weightless and torn open. He’s full of Ryan – _yours, yours, I’m sorry_ – surrounded, submersed, suffocating, everything going grey around the edges. It’s like sliding under the water, except Ryan is right there with him, sliding too.

“I want to fuck you,” Ryan says and Brendon moans, spreading his legs compliantly, feeling Ryan’s cock slip between his cheeks, his hipbones grinding against the sensitive flesh of Brendon’s ass.

Ryan hauls him closer, hand slipping under Brendon’s shirt, fingers twisting a nipple, making him keen and trash around like a fish in a line.

“Please, please, I want you to. I want.” Brendon’s head lolls back and Ryan bites down on the exposed junction of neck and shoulder, right where the skin is stretched tight and thin over the tendons.

“Later. Fuck, _later_. Don’t have anything with me now.” Ryan tongues the bruise he made and Brendon bucks, a high-pitched whine bleeding out.

Ryan keeps rubbing himself against Brendon, the head of his cock smearing wetly against the overheated skin, their movements jerky and frantic. Brendon is moaning continuously now, tear tracks all over his face. Everything hurts. Everything feels good. He’s never been this turned on in his life.

Ryan’s hand sneaks down, wrapping around Brendon’s cock, and Brendon’s body goes taut like a bow string and then he’s coming. But even that’s not straightforward pleasure; his nerve-endings so tangled and raw it’s impossible to distinguish between one sensation and another. Brendon doesn’t feel good or bad anymore, he just _feels_.

Ryan chokes out Brendon’s name, face buried between shoulder blades as he shudders through his own orgasm.

They stay like that for a minute, breathing in synch, sweat and come cooling on their skin. Finally Ryan turns him around and it’s only then that Brendon realises he’s shaking. Ryan holds him steady, lets him clutch and cling and plant clumsy, reverent kisses over every available patch of skin. “I’m sorry,” Brendon whispers, and this time he means it. “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m sor—”

“_Ssshhh_,” Ryan kisses him, gentle and shallow, until Brendon calms down. “I know you are. I know. It’s okay.” 

Ryan fixes their clothes with quick, efficient fingers, and Brendon is grateful because he’s suddenly exhausted, barely able to stay on his feet.

“Let’s go,” Ryan says, taking Brendon’s hand in his. 

Brendon follows.


End file.
